


Untitled for Now

by Redx



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Assassin's Creed: Brotherhood, F/M, fem ezio, fem!ezio - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2016-11-23
Packaged: 2018-08-28 18:39:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8457916
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redx/pseuds/Redx
Summary: Takes place during Assassins Creed: Brotherhood. What if Ezio was captured during the siege of Monteriggioni? Also, since I can't write guys, I've decided to make Ezio a girl in this story. Rating may change. This is Assassin's Creed so naturally it will be very violent. I'm new at writing so please feel free to give me feedback on how you'd like the plot to go. Also, I haven't played the game in a few months and I can't remember every single little detail so if you see any errors (other than the obvious plot changes) let me know. Fem!Ezio





	1. Chapter 1

She had been exhausted that night, nearly falling asleep during her bath. She had collapsed into her bed naked, not even bothering to dry off. She had returned to Monteriggioni that afternoon and it had taken her several hours to tell her allies all that had happened. Her uncle and Machiavelli had been quite upset over the fact that she had chosen to let Rodrigo Borgia live. She knew that she would most likely live to regret her mercy, but she had been tired and half dead and just so fucking sick of killing. 

She had arrived home nearly unconscious, her uncle practically carrying her as blood dripped down from the gash in her side. That night in the bath she had traced the stitches holding her wound together, frowning at the blood that weeped from it and stained the water. Undoubtedly it would scar. Another to add to her ever growing collection. At least it was in a place few could see, unlike the line that slashed through her lip. She hated the scar on her face. Not because it was ugly but because it was noticeable. If one were to say to a guard that the murderer had a scar stretching across their face it would be easy to identify her as the culprit. 

It was all Vieri de’ Pazzi’s fault, when he had thrown that fucking rock at her like a coward nearly fifteen years before because he had known he couldn't take her in a fight. Though lord knows he had tried. He had ambushed her in an alleyway several times, he and his  _ idiota  _ friends. She had always broken free and clambered up onto the roof of the nearest building, but not before she had punched him in the face a few times and given him a nice kick in the groin for good measure. Her feud with Vieri seemed so petty now, after all that had happened. 

Her sleep, for the first time in years, was peaceful. She had finished. She was done. She could finally put down her blade and rest. No more killing, no more fighting and running until she could barely even stand. She would still be an assassin, of course. She would still go on missions for her uncle. But no longer would she be fighting with the knowledge that she had to avenge her father and brothers weighing her down. She had fallen asleep with dreams of the future mapped out in her head. She could finally attempt to repair her relationship with Claudia, who had always resented her a little for being above the rules, for being able to fight, to travel and wear pants and wield a sword and bounce from lover to lover while she was stuck in Monteriggioni managing the villa’s finances and being badgered by their mother to take a husband. Ezio had never quite figured out what made her so different from Claudia, why she had practically been raised a son while Claudia was forced to be a lady. Perhaps it was because she had grown up alongside Frederico, and that he had taken her everywhere with him. Most likely it had to do with the incident when she was twelve, the one that all but destroyed her prospects of marriage, of entering into society, of ever being a lady.

Frederico. It still hurt to think of him and of father and of little Petruccio. She still saw them swinging from the gallows in her nightmares, faces purple and tongues swollen. She was forever thankful her mother and sister hadn't been there that day to witness their deaths. 

She had been woken rudely from her sleep by the sound of cannon fire and, assuming it was only target practice, simply rolled over and swore quietly to herself. The peacefulness of sleep was already leaving her. 

Then the world exploded. A cannonball tore through her room, showering her with splinters of wood. Ezio tore the sheets from herself, peeling them away after they had dried to her wet body. A hiss of pain escapes her lips at the sudden movement and she feel hot blood flowing down her side but she keeps going. Ezio throws on a simple cotton shirt and trousers before donning her hood. She doesn’t even bother to put on her armor. She grabs her hidden blade and thrusts her sword into her belt before moving to the gaping hole that had once been her bedroom wall and leaping out. She runs along the rooftops, desperate to get to the gates, to find out what is happening. She takes control of a cannon as one of her uncle’s men tells her that it was the Borgia who were attacking, led by Rodrigo’s son, Cesare, and that her uncle was fighting outside the walls, trying desperately to hold them off long enough for the people to escape.

She made shot after shot but it seemed to make no difference. There were simply too many men.  Monteriggioni was already lost. It was just matter of time before they breached the walls.

The gates finally gave in, crashing to the ground, and the enemy flooded in, led by Cesare himself. She had certainly heard of him before but this is her first time seeing him in the flesh. He was tall, with dark hair and a pointed beard. He was young too, younger than her by several years. She doesn't have long to look him over however, as she sees the man that is being dragged behind him. Her uncle. With urgency dulling the pain from her wounds, she climbed from one rooftop to the next until she was directly above them, ready to strike. 

Then Cesare pulls Mario to his feet and shouts “Ezio Auditore, I know you can hear me! My father sends his regards!” 

Before she could react, a gun has fired and her uncle’s body was lying in the dirt at Cesare’s feet, blood flooding out from the gaping hole in the side of his head. Her mind goes red. All thought, all reason has left her  and all she can think of is avenging her uncle.

With a scream of fury, she runs forward, preparing to jump off the roof and thrust her blade into that  _ bastardo’s  _ neck. Then pain explodes in her shoulder and she is falling falling falling and landing in a crumpled heap. The bullet wound in her shoulder burns like fire and judging from the wetness running down her side, her stitches have likely burst as well. 

She tries to get up off the ground, to stand, to fight, but her limbs are heavy and her mind foggy. Her strength fails her and hands pull her up and begin dragging her by the shoulders. She has not the strength to resist. 

Ezio’s mind is swimming and suddenly she finds herself on her knees staring at a pair of armored legs. She resists the urge to look up, not wanting her enemy to see the pain clearly visible on her face. She fixes her eyes upon the cobblestones with her head bowed and her face obscured by her hood. She is in so much pain that it is a miracle she is still awake, and angry tears work their way down her face, creating streaks where they wash away the dirt and dust.

She hears cruel laughter coming from above her head.

“Oh how the mighty have fallen. The infamous assassin, the great Ezio Auditore kneeling at my feet. You should have learned by now, all men, no matter how strong, eventually fall before the Borgia.”

She spit blood at his feet and a gasp escapes her lips as his iron-clad foot connects with her abdomen. 

“I did not think you a man to be so easily taken. I had expected more of a fight. A pity, really, that the man does not live up to the myth. But no matter. The  end result shall be the same regardless _.  _ I shall break you and then I shall make you beg for death.” 

Something stirs in the back of her mind, though the haze of pain and rage. He had called her a man. Could he really be that misinformed? She knew that the Templars didn't exactly advertise that the greatest threat to their organization was a woman, but she found it hard to believe that Rodrigo’s own son, bastard though he was, wouldn't have been told the truth. She wants to laugh in his face but the sight of her uncle lying dead cools her mirth. Rage sets back in and her temper finally snaps.

“I swear to you, you  _ bastardo _ , that the last thing you shall feel before you are taken from this earth is my blade carving your heart from your chest.  _ Questo vi prometto. _ (This I promise you.)” She spat the words at him, knowing that she would not stop, would not rest until he was choking on his own blood. All thought leaves her mind, leaving it blank but for the red, pure bloodlust running through her veins.

Her face smashes into the ground and a foot stomps down on her back and then darkness takes over and she knows no more. 


	2. Chapter 2

Ezio wakes slowly at first, her mind dulled by pain. She feels a warmth on her side and  jolts awake upon realizing it is another’s hand. She opens her eyes to see a friendly face staring back at her and for a moment she forgets all that has happened. She forgets Mario and the destruction of Monteriggioni. She sees his face above hers, lips parted in concentration, and feels the sting of a needle piercing flesh and she thinks that she has simply stumbled into Leonardo’s workshop bloody and bruised and he is once more patching her up. But there is sadness in his eyes and a bruise freshly formed stands out against the paleness of his cheek. Her head is still swimming from the pain but she sees his lips moving and becomes aware that he is talking to her, whispering soft promises that that she will be okay. He doesn't seem to notice that she has woken. The blonde artist just keeps apologizing, over and over again as he pushes the needle through her wounds and she cannot understand why. 

But then she feels the cold stone against her exposed back and she lifts her eyes from her friend's face and sees cold stone walls and a heavy wooden door and nothing else. This is not Leonardo’s studio. This is not her room in Monteriggioni. This is not even the room she sometimes slept in at the thieves guild. No, this is a prison cell. Memories come rushing back, a cannonball crashing through her room, her hopeless attempts to defend Monteriggioni, the gates failing. She remembers her uncle falling to the ground, the gun in Cesare’s hand going off before she has a chance to act. She remembers the burning pain in her shoulder, and the way her body slammed feet first into the ground. She remembers being dragged before that  _ bastardo _ and listening to him gloat. And she remembers her head smashing against the cobblestones. But then, nothing. The assassin supposes she must have fallen unconscious and been taken and thrown in this cell. But she cannot understand how and why her friend is here tending to her wounds. 

“Leonardo”, she forced her lips to form his name and winces at the way it comes out, raspy and weak. 

He hadn't thought her awake, that much is apparent from the way he jerks back, dropping the needle and holding his hands in the air like he was trying to say he meant no harm. She supposed his reaction was normal, given that in the past she had woken badly and thought him an attacker. But the guilt on his face, the shame, those are foreign to her and she tries to pull herself up into a sitting position. 

“My friend, what has happened? Where am I?” Her voice is weak and it breaks in several places but she is far too busy searching her friend’s face for answers to care. She tries to sit up and he pushes her back down, hand carefully avoiding the bandaging on her shoulder.

“I-I am sorry Ezio. I had no choice. Cesare learned of my inventions and commissioned me to build him weapons. He does not know that we know each other. I did not know that he would use them against Monteriggioni, against you. I learned what had happened only when he returned and sent me down here to care for a wounded prisoner. Forgive me.” His voice cracks at the end and she sees his eyes fill with tears.

His words whirl through her head and her mind, slowly as it is currently working, still recalls the gun Cesare had had. The one that had killed her uncle. The bullet that had torn through her shoulder. She can’t breathe. She sees him, kneeling  over her with pain and uncertainty in his eyes and she knows that this was not his fault. That to refuse a Borgia meant death. But still she wants to strangle him. To wrap her hands around his throat and squeeze until the colour has left his cheeks and his heart has stilled.

“The gun”, she rasps, throat dry and cracked. “You gave him the gun.” 

She sees him flinch back at the ferocity in her tone. She wonders if he truly understands what he has done.

He leans back, eyes cast to the ground, face pale as snow. “He had heard of others using them and wanted one of his own. If I hadn’t made it for him, someone else would have. I swear to you though, I didn’t know!” His voice becomes fervent at the end, and she can see the desperation in his eyes. 

She pushes back the pain, the rage, the hatred, and focuses on him, on her friend, on Leonardo. She remembers how she came to him with the entire city guard looking for her and gave him a fistful of papers and a broken blade. She remembers all the things he built for her, all the times he stitched her wounds, all the years they had known each other. 

Perhaps it is the pain or the mental fog from hitting her head but she cannot help but think how very young she had been when she first met him, how she carried that box for him and how he had chatted animatedly about his paintings with her mother. Before she had changed. Back before everything had changed. 

She wants to hate him, to rip his throat out with her bare hands for what he has done, but all she can see is his face when she came to him that first time when the wounds of her father and brothers’ death were still fresh and she was barely keeping it together. He had seen her kill the guard that had shown up at his door and had simply told her where to put the body. No matter how much blood stained her hands, he had never abandoned her. The illogical part of her mind overpowers the rest and tells her that she’d prefer him working for her enemy than as another dead body hanging from the gallows. That image of him with eyes empty and body lifeless makes her cringe. She still has trouble with hangings, even after all these years.

No. He is her friend. Perhaps her only true friend. The only one who stayed by her side simply because he wanted to. The only one who wasn’t using her as a blade to wield against their enemies. Her eyes fall upon the angry bruise marring his cheek and she knows the truth. That he is as trapped as she is.

She lifts her head and she sees him hold his breath, “It is okay Leonardo. It is okay. There is nothing to forgive. Now, you must tell me everything that you know.”

The relief spreads across his face and she hears him exhale. He looks as though he is going to break down but he doesn’t. He merely sinks down against the wall next to her and begins to speak.

“You are in Roma, in the  _ Castel Sant'Angelo _ , Cesare’s fortress. The Borgia rule this city. From what I have heard, the brotherhood has been all but cast out of Rome. I do not know what has happened to your mother or sister. They were not found when Monteriggioni fell. I believe they escaped.”

She feels herself go limp at this news. Her mother and sister were not in this prison with her. They were most likely okay.

“You must find Machiavelli. He will know what has happened to them, to everyone. You must tell him I am alive.” He would be able to care for her mother and Claudia, to keep them from harm as she had failed to do.

Her body aches and she can feel the darkness sneaking in on her. She is tempted to let it take her for now, to give in to the much needed rest her broken body begged for, but then she remembers. She remembers what Cesare had said when she was on the ground at his feet with her blood spilling out onto the stone. He had thought her a man. His father hadn’t told him the truth and he hadn’t bothered to do any research of his own on her. She sees the opportunity and snatches at it, a desperate, dangerous plan beginning to form in her head. A part of her is horrified at the thoughts running through her head, at what could happen to her, to Leonardo, even if her plan succeeded. A part of her says that it is too risky, that she should just have Leonardo help her break out of this dungeon and she could just hunt down the Borgia as she had been doing for years. But this plan has already taken hold and she tells herself that this is better, that this is safer, that this will give her a chance to recover in relative peace. She looks up at her friend, avoiding the bruise that she knows will do nothing but cause more rage, and she knows that he will never agree with her idea. He will say that it is too dangerous, too terrible, too impossible. She knows that she cannot tell him. At least not all of it. She focuses on the present, on what must be done right away, before her chance is gone and her advantage destroyed.

“Leonardo, he believes me to be a man. His father has not told him otherwise. You must tell him the truth. It will cause him to begin to trust you and set a wedge between him and Rodrigo. Tell him that you knew my family a long time ago, in Firenze. Tell him as much about me as you could plausibly know. Tell him of my parents, of my brothers. Tell him the story of the scar on my face. Tell him everything up until I showed up at your workshop with the codex pages wearing my father’s robes.”

The artist looks at her as though she has gone mad. He raises a hand to her forehead as though to check for fever, his fingers lingering on her cheek.

“My friend, I cannot. I will not. _ Iddio  _ (God) only knows what  he will do once he discovers the truth. I won’t betray you to him.” He looks down at her, his face set with the same determination that it had shown when he was shaken and bruised after that guard had beaten him all those years ago. When he had helped her hide the body of the first man she ever killed.

She is fading, blacking out once more and she knows she has little time before darkness claims her once more. 

“You must! If we are to have a hope of defeating him, he must trust you. I cannot do this on my own. If you do not tell him and I am seen by some other doctor then he will know you lied and he will kill you. You must tell him everything that he could conceivably find out from others. You must tell him about the incident when I was twelve, what Vieri de Pazzi did to me. His father most likely knows. All of Firenze knew what happened. Tell him that story last. Seem reluctant to bring it up. If you are too eager he will not trust you. You must keep him focused on me. You must make him trust you. Build him his weapons, tell him the truth of my wounds, tell him of the rumors of my mother’s madness after my father and brothers died. Say as little as possible of Claudia. That will keep him from looking too hard for them.” By the time she finishes with her tirade, she is exhausted and her head is pounding and she knows she has no more time.

“Promise me Leonardo da Vinci, swear on the lives of my mother and sister, swear on my own life that  you will do as I say.” She reaches for his hand and her shoulder screams in agony.

She is unconscious before she hears his response. Unconscious as he cleans the rest of her wounds, as he cuts the binding from her chest before replacing her thin bloodstained tunic. He leaves her assassins robes on the ground beside her, folded neatly, belt with the symbol of the brotherhood displayed prominently. He arranges her hair so that it frames her face, short as it is. He makes her look as feminine, as womanly, as possible before he leaves, wiping the dirt from her face and using the fresh blood seeping from her side to redden her lips. 

He has rarely seen her like this, so vulnerable. Even in the past when she had passed out on his table with blood streaming from her body, she still looked like she could wake and stab him in the throat at a moment's notice. She looks younger. Not at all the the killer he knows she is. He always thought she looked peaceful in sleep, even with the bloodstained clothes and the chalky colour her skin has taken on. He is struck by the contrast of red against white, just like her robes.

He picks himself up and begins to leave before turning around and whispering, “I pray you are right about this,  _ mio amico _ .”

The heavy wooden door slams shut behind him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, thanks for reading my story and let me know what you think or if you have any corrections or stuff like that.


	3. 3

She woke suddenly, pain spreading through her.  
The world swam and it took her a moment to see him, to see her enemy standing above her. It had been his boot connecting with her stomach that woke her.   
He stares at her, raking her body up and down with his eyes, lingering on the chest clearly visible through her thin cotton shirt, and on the face, framed by short soft brown hair normally tied at her neck. The face that on a different occasion might have passed for that of a feminine male. The face that was now clearly female.  
If she had the strength she would have snapped his neck and gouged out his eyes as he continued to stare, but in her current state all she can do is glare boldly back at him, ignoring the pain that seemed to press in from everywhere all at once.   
He seems slightly stunned by her appearance and she thinks that perhaps if it hadn't been for the scar on her face and the robes lying beside her, he would have thought her some random woman taken in off the streets. But there is bandaging around her side where his father had said he had stabbed her and her shoulder is wrapped where the bullet had struck her. There is no doubting it. The woman lying before him is Ezio Auditore. When the inventor had come to him he had laughed him off, saying he had most likely examined the wrong prisoner.   
But then, Leonardo da Vinci began to speak, hesitantly at first but gaining confidence with each sentence. He spoke of a girl he had met a long time ago. Of her family. Her mother, her father, her brothers. The information roughly matched up with what he had been told by his father, except for the glaring detail of the great assassin's gender. He had ordered the inventor to wait in his rooms and had made his way to the dungeons to see for himself.   
And there she was. Lying there asleep. Most of her body bloody or bruised.   
And she had been a woman. Undeniably a woman. What with the soft peaks hiding under the fabric of her shirt or the shapely legs covered by tight fitting trousers. The first emotion he felt was rage, rage at his father for having kept such an important fact from him. The second he felt was disbelief, disbelief that a woman could do all that she had done. For god's sake, this was Ezio Auditore, legendary threat to the Templar cause. And yet there she lay, just a woman.   
He kicked her in the ribs and she emitted a sharp gasp as her eyes fluttered open. They are unfocused at first but once she sees him she glares, her face filled with hatred. He can hear her gasping for breathe. See her body tremble with the barely concealed pain, but still she glares at him as though sheer will alone will cause a sword to find a place to rest between his ribs.  
“So it is true.” He states, a cold fury visible on his face. He has none of his father’s self control, that she can clearly see. He is far more emotional than Rodrigo, far less calculating.   
In her pain addled state she smirks, amused by the rage visible on his face. How she hates him, him and his father and all the others that have destroyed her home and murdered those she had held so dear. The smirk widens and a weak laugh escapes from between clenched teeth.  
“I would have thought such a powerful man to be more informed about those he chooses to fight. To know your adversary is to know victory. Such a shame, to find out that the son does not equal up to the father. I see why he would not have told you the truth. I wonder what else he has lied to you about?” She mimics the disappointment he had thrown at her when she had been captured and the taunt is effective. Not a moment later his boot slams into her ribs once more and she slumps to the ground, gasping for air. But still she smirks. All she needs to do is show no pain, no anger, no rage, and she will win this little conversation of theirs. All she needs to do is keep laughing and she remains in control.   
Control. It took her years to learn how to control her emotions, how to wait for the right time to strike, Control was something she could see he lacked.  
“And yet I have managed to do the one thing my father never could. I have killed your uncle and I have burned your home to the ground. I have done what he, in all his years of dealing with you, never could. I have you lying at my feet, weak, defenseless, and we have the apple. You have lost, Assassin. Count your days, for you have few left.”  
The apple. Her tone turns cold and the mocking smile drops from her face as she speaks, the memories of what those spirits had told her still fresh in her mind.  
“Do you truly think that the apple will lead you to greatness? It was not meant for you, nor for me. It is meant for someone else. Only he will be able to do with it what was meant.”  
He is momentarily startled by the abrupt change in her voice, in her eyes, even in her posture. It is as if she is somewhere far away, and the words that she speaks are empty, as though she is merely a messenger. He wonders, yet again, what had happened in that vault beneath the Vatican. His father had been unable to tell him and though he doubted his father’s belief that it had been god in that room, he can see something in her, a conviction that speaks of something greater in play.  
He kneels beside her and pushes a blade under her chin, pressing against soft flesh until a bead of blood appears.   
“What did you see in the Vault? What did you see?” He nearly yells it at her, desperate to know what secrets she has been given.  
“I saw the truth. A truth that you shall never know.” She speaks so softly she is nearly whispering, and in anger he takes hold of her hair and smashes her head against the ground before getting up to leave.  
“Nothing is true, Everything is permitted.” He hears her say as he walks from the room, fury running through his veins. He ignores her. Ignores whatever nonsense she has said. None of it matters. He has won.


End file.
